Let The Dead Things Go
by Val-Creative
Summary: On Halloween night, Shiro and Lance get brutally attacked by an intruder in their home. Three years after packing from Massachusetts to Texas, they carry the physical and mental scars. He and Lance eventually befriend Keith who teaches self-defense to Shiro at the rec center. They invite Keith into their lives, only to discover Keith has his secrets. /Modern AU. Shklance. Oneshot.


**.**

 **.**

Shiro doesn't think he's getting any sleep.

Not after coming home from a long, hectic shift at the gas station, and ending up right in the middle of the Halloween celebrations in his rowdy, overly friendly neighborhood.

The whole night since has been doorbell after doorbell, with little bright-eyed witches and goblins and zombies, eagerly screaming out " _TRICK OR TREAT!_ " on his porch and thrusting out their plastic Halloween-themed buckets up to Shiro's face. It reminds him of his own golden and shining childhood.

He remains vigilantly by the living room, pacing and eyeing through the window-shades and cradling a massive, candy corn-printed bowl of mini milk chocolate Snickers against his chest. Getting into the spirit, Shiro pulls on a thickly knitted and dark sweater embroidered with three fuzzy orange pumpkins right on his sternum, only minutes before another round of trick-or-treaters come ringing on Shiro's front door.

Shiro gleefully answers, offering a wide, contagious smile at the three kids hollering and offering up their opened pillowcases. Well, two _kids_ and a grown man wearing glittering bronze scales on a long-sleeve slipover, with emerald-green, tight spandex and gauntlets, and fisting Aquaman's trident with one hand.

" _Lance_ …"

At a doubtful and almost judgemental look, his newest boyfriend puffs up his chest dramatically, indignantly. Shiro feels the corners of his lips twitching up in humor. He's gotta admit… this is a really cute.

"Hey, I'm a kid at heart!" Lance insists, exaggerating a pout for the Shada twins on both sides on him as they giggle loudly into their hands and jump on the floor-planks.

After being given their Snickers, the twins leap off the porch. "What about me, big fella?" Lance says, dropping his voice to a low, sultry volume, tapping his Aquaman-trident against his own shoulder. He rakes his eyes over Shiro until the other man moves in, grasping Lance's upper arm, kissing him lightly.

"You'll get _your_ treat later," Shiro murmurs, like a promise, eyes half-mast. His right hand, bare skin and tendons and warm, crawls up to Lance's nape, holding him when Lance groans into another half-kiss.

"What if I want it right now…?"

A soft, snorting laugh. "Too bad. You got a job to do, Mister Babysitter," he replies, stepping away and watching as Lance shrugs casually, turning around and heading back for the lawn, yelling to the Shada twins.

There's a hint of burning leaves and rain in the air. Shiro inhales, pressing back against the door-frame and taking in what he's seen of Massachusetts for the past month. There's clusters of decorative, antique streetlamps on every road, as well as trimmed hedges and autumn-drenched, large maples. The sun has already set, leaving behind dark and gleaming rain puddles for the kids to splash in. It's… safe… cozy…

This would be a good place to raise his own kids…

Shiro grimaces, scolding himself mentally. It's way too early for something like that to consider. He's only twenty five, earning a piloting license for commercial flights and taking classes, and working odd-end jobs.

People tend to change, and so do their decisions.

 **.**

 **.**

Eventually, the little monsters and ghouls and ballerinas vanish into their homes with the lights dimming.

Shiro flips off his ghastly, cottony spiderweb-draped porchlight, shivering in the cold with his naked feet, and returns inside. There's only a stray piece of candy left in the bowl, so Shiro quickly unwraps it, popping the too-hardened, milky chocolate past his lips and chewing as the front door bangs open.

"Honey, I'm h _ooooooooooo_ me!" Lance bellows out, kicking off his boots. He grins and strips off his costume in their hallway, revealing his boxers and a white, creased tee underneath. Nothing more is said but Lance does straddle himself into Shiro's lap, humming and crowding the ugly, old loveseat. Shiro chuckles and shakes his head. He laces his fingers together, cushioning the seat of Lance's thermal-padded boxers.

Getting a steady boyfriend has been new and devastatingly wild, and not just the sex (as _sensational_ as it is between them. He's not complaining about that).

Usually, Shiro had been drawn to men with a life experience similar to his, as well as ones that were more financially sound and maturer and older than Shiro. For a while, Lance confessed to be insecure about their relationship — he's very much younger, having celebrated his twentieth birthday back in July with excessive, vomit-inducing drinking and clubbing with their friends. He just successfully got his driver's license earlier.

But, even if they're not the perfect match… Shiro knew the _moment_ he saw Lance, goofing off by the mall's water fountain and then needing to rescue one of his littler siblings out of it, that something else entirely drew them together. Maybe it was only a drowning toddler who needed life-saving CPR from Shiro.

Or maybe it was the _else_ part of this circumstantial fate. He believes it.

"How drunk were the parents?"

"Very," Lance answers him, smiling infectiously, boyishly handsome, but seeming to calm down as he kneel up over Shiro's legs. "Very, very drunk and happy, but they took an Uber home. So that's good."

There's an odor like perspiration and cinnamon sweets on Lance, when their faces incline and Shiro nudges his nose against Lance's cheekbone, breathing him in. "You know… I think I was promised a treat from you," Lance speaks up, pressing a multitude of wet, open-mouthed kisses to Shiro's jaw and down his neck.

Shiro unlaces his fingers, running them up Lance's tee and wrinkling the fabric, exposing his brown skin. He does it again, petting his hands over Lance's thin, narrow back. "And what if it's a _trick_ …?"

"God, I hope so," Lance mumbles out, smiling and panting directly into Shiro's ear. He tugs open the slacks, grinding frantically down on Shiro's lap. Shiro bites down a moan when Lance's fingers make a circle-grip, trying to work him to fullness.

The doorbell rings, long and loud as if someone's holding the button down. "Seriously?" Lance barks out, pulling his hand out of Shiro's underwear and glaring over his shoulder to the hallway.

"Just ignore it."

Shiro wants to rebuild the tension they were blissfully in. He coaxes Lance's mouth to soften against his lips, cupping Lance's face and bringing him in, suckling on the tip of his tongue until his boyfriend makes a low, whining noise into Shiro's mouth, pressing himself noticeably against Shiro's stomach and chest.

This time, the doorbell rings once, twice, in smaller and half-rings, and continuously.

Lance straightens up, frowning and grumbling, but not climbing off. "It's probably Mrs. Montgomery about the leaf-blower," Shiro tells him, more exasperated than anything. "She said she'd come by."

"Why is she always up late? It's friggin' midnight."

"Lance, you're _always_ up at midnight."

"Because I'm usually grading papers, you ass," Lance says defensively. He smirks and leaves a brief, warm peck to Shiro's lips when the other man touches his palms against the armrests. "Don't worry—I'll get it."

With that, Lance slides off and walks into the hallway, hollering to Mrs. Montgomery or whoever is repeatedly trying to ring their doorbell again _hold your horses! jeez!_ and now stomping. Shiro wonders if he's gonna answer the door exactly like that — in nothing but his rumpled, Superman boxers and tee.

He sighs, rising to his feet and checking the grandfather clock. It's about three minutes to midnight.

Shiro follows him into the hallway, glancing towards Lance fiddling and opening the door. It's pitch-black outside with the exception of the ghastly, shimmery blue of the porchlight.

 _A man, about six foot, wearing jeans and a rusty-orange university hoodie, stands there. Lance asks what he wants. He doesn't respond, only standing as if waiting. His transparent, glossy doll-face mask already gives Shiro ominous vibes. The man sluggishly raises his arm, holding up a silvery kitchen knife, and lunges—_

 **.**

 **.**

 _"Mr. Shirogane … …"_

A rush of frenzied, heightened emotion and terror rips through Shiro. He throws himself out of the hypnotized trance, striking at anything in front of him, nearly falling off the leathered and backless couch.

Bright red blood gushes underneath his therapist's nostrils.

She stammers and jerks away, exiting the room as fast as possible, leaving an ashen-faced, stunned Shiro behind. The guilt creeps in like a flash-flare in the distance, approaching high-speed. Blinding, all-consuming.

 **.**

 **.**

The ride home goes by strained by the quiet and the clinking, purposeful whir of the AC.

Shiro doesn't open the car's passenger-side door, ignoring the driver getting out and coming around to him. "This is the third time I'm being let go with a shrink," he mumbles, taking Lance's hand presented to him.

His boyfriend of three and a half years looks exhausted right now, having difficulty keeping the smile in place. Shiro has noticed that Lance may seem taller, and a littler more muscular due to his summertime construction work. The heat of Texas swelters and burns, even in the late, humid spring.

"I thought it said on your chart not to induce traumatic memories _because_ of what happens."

Lance's dark blue eyes narrow. Shiro rubs his fingertips over the bridge of his nose, making a helpless noise. "I don't… I don't know," he answers Lance's observation. "I never really protested when she asked me…"

"We could hold her liable."

"Forget it," Shiro says, exhaling tightly and gazing around at the ruined, pebbled blacktop, crossing his arms. "She didn't even want to discuss the things I've been seeing outside the nightmares."

Lance makes a face, but Shiro knows it's not for him. "Then it just proves that she sucked royally at her job." His tongue pokes between his lips, as he examines Shiro looking away, and whispers, "Hey, c'mere…" Lance folds his arms around Shiro in a reassuring, loose hug, dropping his head to Shiro's shoulder.

He wants to feel _more_ than numb and detached, to hug Lance back, but Shiro only continues to look down, right to his metallic, prosthetic arm disappearing up his off white, dress-shirt sleeve, to his elbow-joint.

His brain sometimes assumes Shiro's forearm and his hand are still there, giving him phantom aches. Sensations that are lost to time and to the past. There's no more Halloween parties or trick-or-treaters. None of that in their lives. Lance turns down all babysitting jobs that get recommended to him. They don't even have a knocker on their front door modified with security bolts and locks.

"We're okay, Shiro. Everything's gonna be better now. New state, new house, new life, right?"

"… _right_ ," Shiro murmurs, dangling his arms lifelessly and closing his eyes.

 **.**

 **.**

The little, colonial house on Walnut Ridge is rumored to be haunted.

(They purchased it through the bank, and spent close to eight months removing the grime and mold and piles of filth left by the hoarders who once owned it.)

Shiro agrees — he feels like the haunting itself. A _specter_ who roams the bleached-white, narrow corridors worn out by age, groaning and mumbling and wringing his hands to fret. It's a shame he never had a big enough mattress-sheet to complete the aesthetic. Shiro's mouth quirks into a semi-amused grin, as he mentally thinks this over, pouring in the oil into his frying pan over the stove-top until it bubbles.

Lances eyes him, pausing from cutting up the bell peppers and onions and carrots. "Not to ruin the moment—because I'm _loving_ this—but what's with the smile, babe?" he asks, starting to grin too.

The pieces of thoroughly cut beef gets tossed into the pan. "It's nothing," Shiro tells him, dismissively but also kindly. As soon as it's all cooked, Lance passes him the vegetables for their stir-fry, tugging off the dark blue, rolled apron and flinging it over a stool. Shiro remembers to go with heaviest of the veggies to cook first, and then tossing in the defrosted snap-peas and the chopped, white onions. "Just being a weirdo."

He splashes in the mix of broth, soy sauce, sugar, and rice white vinegar, adding basil and hunks of garlic.

Lance waits until his boyfriend dumps their stir-fry onto plates and turns off the stove-top, before huddling up to him, circling his arms around Shiro's waist. He presses a messy, affectionate kiss to his throat.

"You're my favorite weirdo…"

"Thanks," Shiro murmurs, responding to the exaggerated wink from Lance with a deep laugh. He hooks his organic hand to Lance's middle and rubs in slow, steady patterns, bumping his chin on top of Lance's head.

Three years of absolute hell, with the regularly-scheduled hospital visits and physical therapy as well as mental care services, and Shiro doesn't understand _why_ Lance stuck around. He's changed — more rational, willing to do the hard stuff before Shiro and becoming the emotional stability they both needed.

Shiro feels...

He feels like he's _trapped_ , inside his own reality and his mind betraying him. Trapped within his skin. He's more cautious and easy to startle, and lashing out violently when Shiro knows it is not something he wants.

Needing a distraction, Shiro asks his boyfriend to pour some of the chilled, berry wine.

He put a little too much sauce on the meat and vegetables, but doesn't hear Lance complaining, as he hops up for a second plateful. "Hey, you need a little more on your bones," Shiro comments, reaching out and patting Lance's ass softly as he passes by Shiro's end of the table.

The other man fake-gasps, covering his own rump modestly.

(With Shiro's prosthetic fingers.)

The wine lulls him into a drowsy, but still sober state, as Shiro half-listens to Lance babbling on the sofa-cushion next to him. "—but I _really_ knew I wanted to move in when I found the Magnum condoms in your drawer. Listen, okay, I knew you were big, but—it was my _heart_ that fell in love at that moment."

"Think you mean your dick," Shiro teases, laugh-groaning when Lance's foot shoves harshly against his gut. "Let me get this right… so you decided you wanted to move in with me finally… because I had a big…"

" _House_ ," Lance interrupts, nodding and sipping on his wine glass. A snort-giggle escapes him when Shiro blinks and straightens up, mocking an innocently confused look. "So much… of a house. Lots of rooms. Furniture. That you could fuck me on with your m-monster coc-ccc _kaahh_ ," Lance wheezes out, dissolving into more laughter, spilling his wine on his henley and falling over on Shiro also beginning to cry-laugh.

And then moaning, happily and needy, when a rosy-cheeked Lance pins him down, licking aggressively into Shiro's mouth and dry-humping over him, greedy for each and every burning touch-contact provided.

They can remove the purpling, darkened winestains from Lance's things and the rug when the sun comes up.

 **.**

 **.**

Shiro doesn't remember the last time he felt like this.

The tops of his knees dig down, scooting on the bed-sheets, when Lance bucks impatiently underneath him, his naked, brown chest dripping with sweat and heaving for air. He gazes up at Shiro wide-eyed like _nirvana_ is within their reach.

Maybe it is.

In a way, it's embarrassing to be watched so intensely by his partner. Shiro's eyes dart, landing on his right. He left behind his prosthetic on their bedstead, massaging the sensitive, hot flesh around his stump, before crawling on the bed. Before allowing Lance to bend him over and finger him open, legs spread, dribbling cool, thickened lubricant all over. He murmured low, loving words into Shiro's abdomen, and helped Shiro position over him.

A trembling, delirium-driven noise slips from Shiro's kiss-raw lips. He pants, relaxing his too-tense, arching leg muscles and feels Lance grasp onto his sides, turning them over, until Shiro feels the mattress below.

There's ropes of sunken, deathly pale flesh from healed puncture wounds. Pink inflamed-looking ones, criss-crossing erratically over the front-most surface of Shiro's forearm, all along his his upper arms and wrists.

He glimpses Lance's arm-scar, running diagonally, and then an uglier, disfigured one marring his left side—

— _the kitchen knife goes sideways, cutting apart flesh and gushing bright blood when Lance yells alarmed, raising his arm to protect himself and now yelling garbled in pain and shock. The grown, doll-masked attacker wastes no time for his second, lunging strike, plunging the knife into Lance once again—_

 **.**

 **.**

— _Shiro can't feel, can't react or move when he sees a crimson, shining glare on Lance's white tee, as his boyfriend collapses limply into the hallway, can't think, as the attacker jumps inside, rushing for Shiro—_

"Babe…?"

Lance's whisper of encouragement calms Shiro's racing heart.

He wakes fully, discovering himself in the blackness of their upstairs guest room, with a sore, dry mouth and a migraine creeping behind his sinuses. How long ago did Shiro pass out? He doesn't even remember Lance helping him fall asleep or even closing his eyes…?

Disorientation clouds over the rest of Shiro's already muddled, hazy thoughts. " _Nn'need water_ …" he slurs, coughing and gulping down bile-tinged spittle, ignoring Lance's offer to grab it for him.

It's even worse when Shiro heads down the grand-master, blackwood staircase, the old and wooden banister creaking and making his pulse quicken. He hurries past where the front door is, banging against something in the darkness that feels like a corner-table, and then feeling along for the dingy, faulty lightswitch to their kitchen. It buzzes on, flickering. Shiro wipes off his face, hauling open the refrigerator for a bottle of water.

The kitchen-light fades off, on, off. One of the shadows grows larger, shaping almost humanoid. "Go away…" Shiro blurts out, frowning. He's too fucking _done_ with the hallucinations. With all of this crap.

"Go the _FUCK_ away!"

His voice rumbles out like a thunderclap, breaking under his stress and fear.

"Shiro," Lance calls out gently, approaching him. As soon as he can feel Lance touch his back, Shiro's resistance crumbles. "It's okay… you're okay, Shiro…" he repeats, hugging Shiro against him as the other man choke-sobs, quivering. "You're okay…"

 **.**

 **.**

Even specters like him can't be haunting their own house all of the time.

During the early morning hours, while Lance heads off to work with their car, Shiro yanks on a pair of sweat-clothes and takes his gym bag with him to the bus driving for mid-town. Nobody pays him mind, in the surrounding bench-chairs, or on the sidewalks, purposely avoiding eye-contact and hunching over their vibrantly lit phones.

It's much better that way.

Shiro doesn't need his anxiety skyrocketing if a complete and total stranger tries to have a conversation with him. Except maybe if it's Keith — the guy who trains around the same time as Shiro at the rec-center.

Keith is a little under five eight, lean and sinewy and with dark eyes and dark, tousled hair. He's likely around Lance's weight range. Nobody has beaten him in the defense-combat practices, or so Shiro has heard from the manager of the classes and sign-on organization. Keith is quick on his feet, with natural, fierce instincts, and can anticipate a move before you can even _think_ your next one into existence.

Which is why Shiro is relieved that Keith warmed up to him.

He instructs Shiro how to block a punch, or safely escape an unyielding, almost death-grip around his neck. They train frequently. Shiro notices how _lonely_ Keith seems, and goes out of his way to encourage and compliment Keith — smirking when he flushes, mumbling.

This time, neither of them are grinning or making dreamy, not-so-subtlety admiring eyes at each other.

Keith lands a hit into Shiro's core, knocking the wind out of him and sending him onto the rec-center's mats. He feels Keith land on top of him, aiming another punch when Shiro's organic and prosthetic arm lifts—

— _a strangled, low yelp escapes him, when his attacker jumps onto Shiro, brandishing the knife into the air and hacking at Shiro's arms crossed protectively over his face, dripping so much red onto his eyelids, red—_

"Whoa, calm down," Keith says, no longer saddled on top of him, pulling Shiro's fingers from wrapping around himself in distress and gathering them into Keith's hands. It feels like heart palpitations. His stomach icy-cold and rotating inside him, filled nausea. "Shiro, hey, you're having a panic attack. Take a deep breath."

Listening to Keith's instructions, being guided by him, feels like this is all becoming a habit.

Shiro inhales sharply, no longer hyperventilating or shaking, clasping around Keith's wrists tightly. "That's it… good," Keith whispers, observing the other man's color gradually return. "You're doing good."

" _Mm'sorry_ …"

"Don't be, Shiro. Where were you this time?"

A young woman and a young man on the mats stare in their direction, and Shiro closes his eyes. "Back… _back_ in the house right when it happened," he tells Keith, his voice hoarse. "I was pinned down…"

Keith nods, looking around. He slips their fingers apart to grab water out of his red-and-white striped pack.

"Let's take a break," he says firmly, passing Shiro have his bottle after taking a long gulping mouthful. Keith's pink, plump lips gloss with room temperature water. His brow and dark scruffy jawline too when Shiro passes it back, and the other man pours some water over his tilted face, rubbing off his chin and mouth.

Both men recline on the mats, stretching their legs out. "They never found him," Shiro points out, watching as Keith creases his forehead, looking back at him with wary, bland curiosity.

"You mean, the guy who attacked you and Lance…?"

Shiro doesn't regret telling Keith the whole story. Unlike everybody else, Keith doesn't doubt Shiro for a moment. "Police said they did, but they never got a real confession. He died while in his holding cell… Keith, I _see_ him in my house sometimes. In the corners, in the shadows, lurking around and _waiting_. Again."

A fluttering of renewed, slick-hot nausea crawls up Shiro's belly.

It's his worst fear. To relive this.

Keith glares down at his phone by his hip vibrating and brightening to a glow-white. "I get it," he mutters, pressing off the oncoming call. "We're all trying to run from something our past doesn't wanna let go."

This time, Shiro's curiosity drags to the surface, thrashing.

"What are you running from, Keith…?"

"Clowns," Keith says dully, getting on his feet with his phone. "I hate those fuckers." His lips twist into a mildly annoyed smile when Shiro bursts out laughing, clutching his abdomen and sagging to a workout mat.

 **.**

 **.**

The rest of the day fades into a monotonous blur.

Shiro immediately towels off and dresses himself once out of the fogged, glass-lined shower. He examines his reflection, combing through the silvery-white streaks in his bangs. His forefinger traces absently over the deep, pinkened ridge of his nasal-scarring, as if trying to find a lining — where to _peel_ it off.

When he's not paying attention, Lance sneaks in, bumping against Shiro's front while perusing for his toothbrush in the cabinet. "I invited Keith over to dinner," Shiro announces, watching him. "I told him it was around nine."

Lance glances over his shoulder, popping open the toothpaste and flashing a grin.

"You replacing me?" he asks. Shiro's eyes round and Lance makes an exasperated noise, rolling his eyes and pushing lightly on his boyfriend's chest. "Babe, I'm _kidding_ —if he's hot, then I'm all in."

" _Lance_ —"

"Hey, don't give me that, Shirogane," Lance declares through a mouthful of foamy aqua-blue, the handle of his red toothbrush dangling between his jaws. He spits. "You tell me everything and you got a thing for him: I know it, you know it, _Keith_ probably knows it and wants to hit that. I'm saying it's cool."

Shiro presses his organic hand over his features, dragging down, as Lance rinses his mouth and gargles.

 _Oh god_ , shit — he's not sure what kind of emotion to feel right this second?

How can Lance say that like it's no big deal?

Shiro dares to peek between his fingers as Lance smacks his lips, examining himself in the mirror and preening. "We just gotta… talk it out, you and me… if it's gonna be a really real thing between you and him. Or you and me and him." A thoughtful, musing sound emerges from Lance's mouth. He blinks, cradling a hand under his chin and looking up at nothing particular. "Hell, maybe I'll fall for him too. You never know."

"It's never easy telling when you're being a serious or not…"

"Don't worry, I'm only like _thirty_ percent serious right now," Lance admits, practically mouth-to-mirror, holding up his nose with a thumb-pad and checking for any dried, visible boogers.

Shiro finally chuckles. "How's the marinade?"

"Olive oil, seasoning, and balsamic vinegar on the pork since last night, Shiro. I know how to cook."

"Uh- _huh_."

 **.**

 **.**

Without a doorbell or a knocker, they listen for any engine rumbling towards the pathway or blacktop.

Shiro greets Keith by the lawn, waving one-handed. He wanted to leave behind his metallic-looking prosthetic for the evening, neatly knotting up the unused, flapping sleeve beneath his right arm.

Keith climbs off a humongous, ink-black and gleaming motorcycle, thrusting off his helmet. "Hey!" he calls out, never glimpsing down at Shiro's obviously missing arm. Keith has already known about his prosthetic, due to their training and discussing Shiro's past off and on, but it's the first time he's truly seen Shiro without it. The close he gets, the more Shiro can faintly smell Keith's soap and a musky, dark cologne.

Oh, okay… maybe Lance was onto something earlier…

Shiro gazes around at his boyfriend also gawking slightly at Keith, with both of his hands covered in oven-mittens. "Oh my lord, you gotta be kidding…" Lance says in a loud, gleeful kind of frustration, throwing up his arms dramatically and spinning at the heel, disappearing inside. "That's it! I'm _all_ in—!"

"… Hello?" Keith mumbles, upper lip curling.

It's the sight of Keith's distrust and blatant confusion that makes Shiro move in, as if reassuring him, touching the other man's shoulder-blade. "Don't mind Lance. He's being a goofball." Shiro whispers, meeting their eyes and softening his expression into a rarer, lovely smile. "It's really good to see you, Keith."

Keith's face warms. His moms always taught him to hug, friends or family, and Shiro tries a half-hug form, looping his arm around Keith's shoulders only to feel Keith's rigidness melt against him.

"Can I get in on some of that?" Lance interrupts merrily, throwing himself into a group hug. " _Nice_."

Shiro muffles down a laugh, when Keith glares a little. "Are you always like this?" he asks Lance who shrugs.

"Wanna find out?"

Somehow, both Shiro and Keith weren't expecting that bold, happy response — Lance tugging on a flustered Keith's wrist and introducing him to their pet goldfish Thace, leading him into the kitchen. Shiro takes his time back into the hallway, after he checks and double-checks that all of their security locks were in place.

 **.**

 **.**

To his relief, Keith and Lance gets along for the most part, bickering over the dinner table about which 80s horror films were trashiest, and playfully tossing a bread-roll in each other's salads.

Sometimes it happens — Lance drops an overly flirtatious comment, winking in Keith's direction as the other man squirms and reddens. Shiro has a difficult time not imagining both of them rolling around upstairs, hips lifting and backs arching, Keith flattened on top of a fully naked Lance. He bites gently on Lance's throat marked up with Shiro's lovebites, eyeing Shiro on the opposite end of the bed jerking himself off to them.

Fantasy aside, Shiro's developing concern is more how Keith grips around his bulky, plastic smartphone, whenever it lights up and buzzes. And how he winces unconsciously and pales drastically around the edges.

"Who's calling you?" Shiro questions, nodding to the item. "This is probably the fifth time in the past hour."

Keith's lips part.

"… Army recruiter, yeah," he grumbles solemnly. Keith's phone slides over the blackwood, newly polished table, further away from everybody. " _Yeah_. I gotta block that number sometime."

Before anyone can speak up, what sounds like Keith's motorcycle revs up, thundering and crashing against the porch. Shiro leaps onto his feet, wide-eyed and heart pounding erratically, along with Keith, staring at the hallway's entrance. "What the fuck was that?" Lance yells out, gripping onto the table's end.

"Lance, call the police," Shiro orders quietly, astonished with himself that he sounds so levelheaded.

"We're an hour and a half away from the station…"

"Just…" He glances at Lance's terrified, doubtful look, taking in a harsh and steadying breath. "Do it, _please_ , okay? Keith?" With his boyfriend remaining seated in the dining room, Shiro notices Keith's absence. It's like he vanished right into the smoke of the yellowing, pillared candles on their antique and squared table.

" _Keith_ —!"

Shiro runs for the kitchen first, darting inside for the smaller and narrower corridor leading to the adjacent, boarded-up garbage. What he considers a side-door hangs open, like a gigantic, black hole to reality.

"Fuck!" Shiro yells, looking around for something to defend himself with, and reaches for a dusty broom—

— _and plants a foot against his attacker's sternum, violently kicking him off. Blood dribbles down Shiro's wounded arms, his right forearm more damaged and getting numb. He rolls trembling onto his stomach, gagging and with hot tears rolling down Shiro's red-streaked, flushed face. A high-pitched scream escapes him, when the sensation of a knife repeatedly punctures into the muscles of Shiro's upper back—_

"No."

Shiro hears himself voice this sternly and with conviction.

He reaches much more slowly for the broom, and then exits the door, engulfed in the damp, heated shadows.

Keith is out there somewhere, by _himself_ , with nobody there for him — and Shiro will be damned if he leaves him to whatever it is out there trying to scare a reaction out of them.

He creeps along the outer portion of the house where brush grows wild and grey and thorny. There's noises like hollering and the loud, sickening clash of flesh hitting bone. Bright white floodlights pierces through the darkness, haloing around Keith and another, taller man. Stringy, thin hair dyed purple. Crazed eyes. The man's mouth is a seal of mottled, twisted crimson, saliva and the bloody fluid drooling between his lips.

Shiro makes his decision, lowering the broom and stepping out, putting up his hand.

What feels like a panic attack grips onto him. A gun-muzzle presses underneath Keith's chin, right to his jugular vein. "This who you've been dickin' around with instead of me?" the man says, an unrelenting, intense fury shaping his every word. " _HUH_?"

"Sir… my name is Takashi Shirogane. There's no need to do this. Come inside and we can—"

The man fires a warning shot into the air.

Shiro nearly passes out, falling backwards onto the grass—

— _he's so close to it, so close to the front door and Lance, before his attacker grabs Shiro's collar and forces his head up, exposing his head and putting the dirtied, red kitchen knife against his neck—gunshots ring out, multiple times—one of their neighbors, an off-duty cop, bellows out incoherently and pops another bullet into the attacker flying backwards onto the rug, through his shoulder, his pelvis—he just wants it over—_

"How about I kill both of you assholes? Right here! RIGHT THE FUCK NOW!"

Keith coughs out, grimacing, "Antok—" The gun whips out, smacking across Keith's mouth and nose, loosening a tooth. Shiro witnesses him collapses limply onto the ground, and scrambles to get to his feet.

Antok now points the gun at Shiro's head, circling around him.

"How long you been screwing him, boy?"

He keeps his eyes on the man, instead of the gun, raising his hands again. "We're good friends… that's it," Shiro insists calmly, and somehow that just makes this guy angrier, gritting his slightly pointy teeth.

"I don't believe that for a goddamn secon _AAAH_ —"

Antok shrieks painfully, flailing and dropping the gun. One of the meat-cleavers juts out of his back. Lance stares over him with a deadpan and yet frightened light in his blue eyes, stumbling out of Antok's grasp.

Keith, enraged and prominently bruised, seizes Antok's gun and empties the chambers. Or attempts too.

Shiro never sees a bullet.

Not _one_.

Keith's foot jams into his ex-boyfriend's groin, and then into his face, knocking him out. Lance groans dizzily, careening onto a pinch-faced Shiro rushing and grabbing onto him, lowering them to their knees, kissing his cheek breathlessly. Shiro waits for Keith to follow, before hooking the upper bit of his right arm around Keith's neck securely, hiding his face into dark, moist strands and tasting Keith on his lips for the first time.

 **.**

 **.**

The police are delayed by another hour or so.

By the time the interviews finish, one-by-one, illuminated by red and blue flashes of the two large police cars and more questions are directed towards Keith about his abusive stalker of an ex-boyfriend, Shiro has had enough. He informs Sheriff Keaton and his deputy that all three of them will cooperate in the morning, dragging Lance and Keith back inside and using only the biggest, densest lock on the front door.

"This was my problem, _mine_ I was running away from," Keith murmurs, gingerly pressing an icepack against the left side of his mouth. He's a vision with his creamy, bare skin, with Lance's fingers and palm skimming over Keith's ribs, with Shiro's hand on Keith's thigh, "I shouldn've gotten you involved…"

" _Ss'kay_ …"

Lance's sleepy, adoring mumble brings a film of moisture to Keith's eyes quivering shut. He exhales, stifling a cry when Shiro leans fully into him, pushing his lips against Keith's earlobe and his irresistible, soft warmth.

 **.**

 **.**

Shiro always thinks about Halloween, but in a sort of fearful, hateful reverence.

He walks out onto the bleached, soil-flecked porch in silence, carrying a huge, orange jack o' lantern carved into a jagged grotesque face. Leaving it out as an offering, a _guardian_ against the shadows of nightfall.

(He always does, but not this year.)

 **.**

 **.**

* * *

 _Voltron isn't mine. So this originally had been for the Voltron Halloween Big Bang before every mod running it dropped out and I had been excited,,, but hey,,,, sometimes everything goes to shit! And you gotta just keep going anyway! My beta reader and artist also dumped me on my ass so WHATEVER. I LOVE MY STORY AND WHAT I DID AND I HOPE YOU GUYS DO TOO. This is also for the "Voyeurism" space for the NSFW Genre card of Voltron Bingo! HAPPY HALLOWEEN!_

 _And if you got to the end of this fic and read it, please leave a nice word or two! It would mean a lot! There's been a lot of non-reviewing when I put out Voltron fic though I can SEE people are reading and they favorite my stories. Writers really wanna be encouraged and hear from you! I'll appreciate even one nice word!  
_


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